


Sterek Fictober Drabbles

by teacuphuman



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fictober drabbles, M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-08 22:55:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12263763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacuphuman/pseuds/teacuphuman
Summary: Drabbles written following the prompts for Inktober





	1. Swift

It happens so quickly Derek almost misses it. It’s smooth, and graceful in a way he doesn’t associate with Stiles. It’s chaste, and dry, and he’s leaning forward for more when Stiles pulls back and chuckles, ducking his head to hide his smile.

 

“Sorry, I just—I needed to do that,” Stiles mumbles, hands in his pockets, swiveling on his heel like he’s ready to run.

 

“Do it again,” Derek tells him, and even to his ears he sounds angry.

 

“And what?” Stiles prompts, eyes a little wild and a lot unsure.

 

“Nothing, just do it again. I think I missed it the first time.”


	2. Divided

“This isn’t fair,” Stiles bit out.

 

Derek shook his head, clenched fists pressed to his thighs. “You knew that when we started this. I can’t always side with you, just because we’re together. Not when it’s this important.”

 

“But I love you,” Stiles tried, pleading with Derek to at least think about it. This was important to Stiles, couldn’t he see that?

 

“I wish that mattered.”

 

A broken whine escaped Stiles’ throat and he dropped onto the couch, defeated.

 

“Stop being dramatic, you know this is for the best,” Derek said.

 

“Dramatic? I haven’t even begun to be dramatic. I am never going to let you live down this mistake, Derek. Never.”

 

Derek pinched the bridge of his nose and smiled at the sales person. “Stiles, it’s a coffee table. A freaking ugly coffee table. You need to pick your battles a little better.”

 

“I will die on this hill,” he swore, crossing his arms and glaring at the table in question.

 

“It’s shaped like a kidney,” Derek pointed out.

 

“It’s sleek and modern! Plus, it’s dark wood, which you like.” Honestly, he was already compromising by not insisting on the glass-topped one, what more did Derek want?

 

“It’s still shaped like a kidney. It literally pains me to look at it, and it doesn’t match anything else we’ve picked out.”

 

“But I want it,” Stiles whined, flopping down sideways across the couch.

 

“You’re being a brat.”

 

“Excuse me?” Stiles asked, sitting up. “ _ I’m _ being a brat? Who was the guy who threw a fit when I said no keeping the chair he made in shop class in the ninth grade? The one he pulled out of an old shed, where it had been rusting for god knows how long?”

 

“My mom said it was clever,” Derek argued, his ears turning red.

 

“Your mom lied, buddy. It’s made out of an old shopping cart and it’s terrible,” Stiles shrugged. “But I let you keep it, didn’t I? I even let you put that fucking eyesore in our bedroom. Because I love you. And sometimes, being in love means saying yes to hideous furniture.”

 

Derek, crossed his arms over his chest and glared at him. “Fine, but I want a sheepskin throw for the back of the couch.”

“Deal!” Stiles clapped his hands and jumped to his feet. Maybe this whole cohabitating thing wasn’t going to be as difficult as he thought.


	3. Poison

“Uh-oh,” Stiles says, turning around and pointing to the vials on the table between them.

 

Derek’s nostrils flare at the spike of anxiety in Stiles’ scent. “What do you mean ‘uh-oh’?” 

 

“Which vial did you just drink? The one on the right or the one on the left?”

 

“The one on the left. The one you told me to drink!”

 

“My left, or your left?”

 

“Stiles,” he growls. “What did I just drink?”

 

Stiles spreads his hands and swallows loudly, and Derek really shouldn’t find that as attractive as he does. “Well, if you drank the one on my left, like I told you to, by the way, then you drank the one that’s going to make you all hulked out and super strong. More than usual, I mean, like we planned.”

 

“And the other one?”

 

“The other one, which I absolutely did not tell you to drink, is, um...poison.”

 

“You let me drink poison?” Derek roars, the vials on the table clinking brightly.

 

“Okay, first of all, inside voice, wolfman. Second, I told you which one to drink, it’s not my fault if you don’t know my right from your left!”

 

“Yes it is, this is absolutely your fault. Who just has poison sitting around anyway?” Derek pauses, narrowing his eyes. “Did you do this on purpose?”

 

“You know what? Fuck you, Derek.  _ Did I do this on purpose? _ We have a giant mystery beast on the loose in the woods that none of us can ever get near, and what, I thought I’d poison our best chance at stopping it, for shits and giggles?”

 

Derek has to force himself not to preen at the compliment and instead leans across the table and glowers at Stiles. “Why did you have the poison?”

 

“It’s a natural byproduct of the spell. Like an antidote in case the hulk serum goes too far. Look, I told you there were risks. This isn’t exactly a toy chemistry set we’re dealing with here.”

 

Derek presses fingertips into the table, surprised his claws haven’t popped out. He takes a breath and realizes he can’t smell Stiles anymore. Not like he should. His claws haven’t appeared because they’re not there. It’s starting.

 

“How long do I have?” he rasps.

 

Stiles’ hand covers his on the table, warm and rough. Grounding. “Derek—”

 

“How long?”

 

“A couple of hours, maybe more.”

 

Derek laughs bitterly. “Just in time for the sun to go down and the beast to appear. That’s just great.”

 

“Look, it’s going to be fine. I’m not going to leave you, I’ll protect you.” Stiles’ hand is back on his, the look in his eyes fierce and serious.

 

“Protect me from what, Stiles? I’m dying.” Derek’s chest hurts, like a steel band is constricting its normal rhythm. So, this is what dying feels like. Suddenly, he wants to tell Stiles all the things he’s kept inside. The secret desire, the naked hunger he feels that only worsens the closer they get to each other. He wants to lay it all out on the table and be free of the burden. But he can’t do that. Not like this. He can’t leave Stiles with the guilt of not having had enough time.

 

“Dying? What—Oh my god,” Stiles steps back, his confusion melting into surprise and guilt. “Dude, it’s not that kind of poison.”

 

“What?” His anger is back and he’s around the table and pressing Stiles against the wall in seconds.

 

“Um, I mean, technically it is poison, says so in the book and everything, but it’s more of an arsenic than a ricin. A little bit isn’t going to kill you, and what you drank, that was only a little bit, I swear.” Derek can’t smell Stiles’ fear and arousal, but somehow, he knows it’s still there. His pupils are dilated and he keeps licking his lips, squirming in Derek’s grip like he’s afraid of what he might do if he holds still.

 

“But I can feel it inside me, muting my wolf.”

 

“Well, yeah, that’s what it does. The serum boosts your strength and power, the poison takes it away. You’re basically human now.” Stiles grins and it looks too smug for Derek’s taste so he presses in closer.

 

“You sure you didn’t do this on purpose?”

 

“On any other day, I see where you’re coming from, but not when we’ve got a creature feature out there hunting people. I’m negligent, not stupid.”

 

Derek huffs. “You’re something, all right.”

 

“So, human Alpha,” Stiles grins, tilting his hips into Derek’s. “Wanna wrestle?”

 

Derek rolls his eyes and gives in. Turns out Stiles tastes even better than he smells.

 


	4. Underwater

He’s shaking. Not just a tremble from the cold, but the kind of full-body, bone-deep shudder that has his joints aching and his muscles seizing, and he feels like he’ll never be warm again and even out of the water it’s difficult to draw a breath. His brain fizzed out when he went through the ice, his mind going blank in the shock and darkness of the moment. 

 

His hands are clenched and even using all his focus, he can’t uncurl his fingers. There are droplets of water frozen to the fine hair on the back of his hand and he wants to cry, but he’s afraid it’ll hurt when the tears come out as icicles. 

 

A long pink tongue laps over his knuckles, licking heat into his pale skin and sending a shot of pain through his nerves with every new pass. He swears he hears his joints crack when his fingers finally straighten and he drags them through thick black hair, pulling the wolf closer until his earthy breath is warming his face in moist puffs. The tongue laves over his neck and he groans at the blessed heat. 

 

His clothes are soaked, but the wolf’s unnatural body temperature still gets through, bringing his central nervous system back online, one prickling inch at a time. He’s not out of the woods yet (ha), but he may escape hypothermia if he lets the wolf press him to the hard ground, settling over him with an anxious whine.

 

He wraps his sodden arms around the wolf’s dense body, scratching behind its ears as a cold nose huffs under his ear. It’ll be okay, the wolf will keep him safe, if not warm. They’ll be okay.

 

“Good boy,” he murmurs, his voice wrecked, smiling when the wolf nips at his ear.


	5. Sword

Stiles is panting, blinking sweat and tears out of his eyes. The sword is still in his hands, the cold metal of the hilt turning his arms numb until he drops it on the forest floor. There’s blood on the leaves, pooling under his shoes and staining the earth as he stands there and shakes. He did it. He’s a killer now. 

 

It was both more and less difficult than he imagined. Dragging the blade through muscle and sinew, glancing off bone hard enough to make his teeth ache. He’s exhausted, his back and shoulders sore from the strain of cutting a body in two. But he did it. The time finally came when Stiles was tested, and he has no idea if he’s passed. 

 

The decision itself was the easy part. He barely even thought about it before charging in, jumping down on the werewolf standing poised to strike at a suspended Derek. Framing hunters was a nice touch, but Stiles can’t afford to give points for effort. Not when his heart is on the line.


	6. Shy

Derek’s not shy,  _ he’s not _ . But there’s something about Stiles that ties his tongue, freezes his smile, and makes his brain take a hike. It could be the winning smile, or the bright, mischievous eyes. Maybe it’s the long fingers and slender hands, the extremely arousing curve of his neck, or the moles dotting his skin. Or it’s the never-ending stream of conscious word vomit that always seems to pour out of Stiles’ mouth. He’d once asked Derek how his weekend was and before Derek could even react, had started in on the genetic makeup of endangered pine trees.

 

Whatever it is, it’s working. Stiles has Derek nervous and flustered, much to Erica’s delight, every time he comes in. He let’s Derek choose his drinks now, so Erica says they’re basically dating, even if they never actually talk  _ to _ each other. Stiles mouth is on autopilot and Derek is desperate for the sound of it, so he just nods and hums in the appropriate places while he makes Stiles’ triple raspberry and hazelnut latte. He makes a heart with the foam on top because he may not be able to speak his feelings, but he can sure as hell try to show them.

 

Stiles wanders off to his table, hand curved unknowingly around the sleeve on the cup, Derek’s phone number peeking out between his thumb and index finger. Stiles groans at his first sip and turns to give Derek a thumbs up. Derek hides behind the espresso machine and pretends to count cups. 

 

The next time Stiles comes in, he’s soaked from the rain, his lithe body curled nearly in half to protect his laptop. Derek throws him a towel and Stiles grins in thanks, making Derek’s heart rate spike. He starts making a chocolate mint mocha for Stiles, keeping his eyes on the foaming milk and not on the way Stiles’ clothing clings to his body. It’s a lost cause though, because the next thing he knows, Stiles is leaning across the drink counter, trying to see what Derek’s making, droplets of water coursing down his neck to disappear under the collar of his shirt. He’s unusually quiet today, watching Derek work with those bright, amber eyes. His hair is wet and he smells like ozone, rainwater, and whatever spicy deodorant he uses. Derek wants to lick him. He slides the drink over, mustering up a small smile.

 

Stiles’ eyes go wide and his skin flushes. He takes a sip of the mocha, moaning so obscenely, Derek feels his own skin heat in response. Stiles goes to his table, bumping into another patron when he turns back to look at Derek, twice. Derek bites his lip to hide his smile, but Erica knocks her shoulder into his and leaves a piece of paper and a pen on the counter in front of him.

 

“Use your words,” she instructs, disappearing into the back.

 

Derek spends the next two hours staring at the paper, debating with himself whether it’s more embarrassing to pass Stiles a note, or not be able to talk to him at all. The storm outside is building, the lights flickering in the shop, and that makes his decision for him. He scrawls

 

**Can I give you a ride home? -Derek**

 

on the paper, folding it half twice and dropping in front of Stiles when he goes out to bus tables.

 

Stiles makes a choking/laughing noise when he reads it and Derek is glad he’s behind him so he doesn’t have to see the face Stiles makes. He hides in the back for a while, running things through the dishwasher and restacking the coffee. Erica calls him back out when they get a rush, but he can’t bring himself to check if Stiles is still there. It was stupid to leave the note, juvenile and pathetic, and he concentrates on the drinks, making the most exact beverages of his life. He’s wiping down the machine when a paper airplane glides over it and lands in his hair. His frown softens when he looks up and catches Stiles sending a nervous smile his way.

 

Derek unfolds the plane, a thrill going through him at the spiky writing under his original note. 

 

_ I’d really like that, thanks. -S _

 

Derek makes a chocolate latte with a double shot of espresso and takes it out to Stiles, the note now folded into a frog. He sets them both on the table lets his hip brush Stiles’ shoulder on his way back.

 

The note comes back as a fortune teller, saying that it’s fine that Derek’s not off until 8pm, that Stiles will wait for him. This is good, he thinks, that they’ve finally found a way to communicate. Derek feels more confident like this, when he’s not constantly distracted by Stiles mouth, his hands that never stop moving. 

 

**Can I buy you a cookie? -Derek**

 

He turns the flower into dinosaur and hands it to Erica to deliver. She shakes her head, but squeezes his hand and drops it on Stiles’ table with a mighty roar. Stiles laughs so hard his shoulders shake and the note comes back to Derek in a crumpled ball, hitting him in the forehead as he refills the coffee machine. 

 

_ I don’t know how to make anything else. _

_ I like that you’re wooing me with coffee and pastries, it’s a smart move.  _

_ Peanut butter chocolate chip, please and thank you! -S _

 

Derek blinks at the note. Is that what he’s been doing? Wooing Stiles. It’s true Derek picks his drinks, and that he only pays for them when it’s someone other than Erica of Derek at the till, but he hadn’t consciously been—oh crap, yes, he totally has. He couldn’t talk to Stiles with words, so he talked to him with actions. Fed him, entertained him,  _ pleased _ him, all with product. 

 

He flushes and grabs a new piece of paper, carefully folding the now delicate original and slipping into his pocket.

 

**Took you long enough. -Derek**

 

_ I was too busy trying to hit on you to notice. I like your cookies-S _

 

Derek chokes on his spit, gaping at Stiles, who laughs, shaking his head and turning back to his laptop. Well, then.


End file.
